


Spider's Web

by altairattorney



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like a spider's web, to ensnare the fates of many people... – Collection of<br/>drabbles based on phone numbers and their locations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Here is the town, soaked by the light of another sunset. No matter what scenery the windows show – the flats are caught in nets made of Christmas, of wishes and small daily things, far from the evening that falls behind the junkyard.

The show that these homes offer to the world, however, is not less varied or charming.

On the first floor, a child clings to the receiver to greet his aunt and uncle. Just one elevator's step above, an old grandma promises cake to her little grandson; next door, a young girlfriend entwines the cable with her fingers, sending invisible smiles to her beloved.

On the other side of the town, the wires are tense; in a grey block of flats, the police sit without a word, waiting for the first ring to trigger a night of chaos.

Many, in this town made of crowds and uneasy silence, rely on telephones to keep their bonds together. Their dreams run, far beyond the outskirts, looking for something they may never find.

Sometimes they wish to be on the other end of the line, to hug someone they miss, or to enjoy a familiar view. Never, in those moments, do they remember the cheerful song of their fireplaces, or the warm colours of their carpets.

They long for what they don't see; such is the nature of men. And now, with the receiver leaning on their ears, they feel disappointed – they listen to wishes that burn out of their reach, beyond the unbreakable silence of the line.

Complaints will not do; the struggles of the phone company, tracking malfunctions in ever different zones, will not make a difference. Tonight — just for one night — the cables will embrace someone else's life.


	2. (MHR)–8513 - Junkyard

The phone booth is slowly getting old.

The plans were to put it to use at least once a day. The truth is more like that of the objects all around — done for and never to be used, if not by a few stray cats or other unexpected visitors.

If it weren’t for the director, half of the cables would be long gone, consumed by rust or the teeth of mice. He still wants the booth to be functional; he needs it, just in case, in spite of the stale metal and the smell that surrounds it. 

There might always be something new. Especially now, the time of year in which communications flow from the edge of town, and right there — among the discarded remains of many homes and lives — a new tangle of events is coming to light.

Most things are dead in the junkyard. Except for colours and rare gushes of wind, few things move. Nonetheless, something is going down tonight; something very much alive, and very deeply involved in deaths.

Not a soul ever visits this forsaken place — but the night that is just beginning is going to change this, and in more than one way.


	3. (MHR)—4568 - Pigeon Man's Office

Light tapping of feet, all night long. A low whistle fills the small empty space that is left — it is part of the concert, the chant of a long wait.

But there is more to the wheels, to the squeaking lamp, to the sound of pen on paper. Most of all, in this office, there are always words. The scenery changes little from night to night — there are whispers and loud thoughts, while the emotions, the expectations, ever grow more powerful. They are the kettle, with its boiling water.

Fragments of questions, few answers, are scattered all around. Phone calls and notes and even some tears, oh  _please_  -  _let it be true_ \- all things that these walls love to keep safe. Yet, the more nights pile up, the harder it is to hold them back. Steam starts rising in whirls.

In just one night, it becomes too much. A fist - pure rage - slams, and the surface is on fire,  and the whistling, the cry, the shivers never stop.

Blood and water fall to the ground. The kettle is left behind to die, with many other things. This might be the last night.

But the fire burns on, and it doesn’t - not yet - give in to silence.


	4. (MHR)–4481 - Pigeon Man's Basement

For years, this room sat closed in itself. 

Empty boxes, piles of forgotten objects, come and gone with the needs; the grey walls guarded what chance brought inside them, ever identical to themselves. Most of the time, the doors were kept locked, the floor empty. The freight elevator never let out a sound in months.

The basement was the sleeping shadow to that office; it only seemed to exist when needed, and to rest, otherwise, far into the land of forgotten places.The keeper often promised to himself — he would put it to good use one day, in his bits of spare time. The room lay still.

Then came the cogs. One by one, they were the first scraps of metal in the room to be built in a sequence from the start. With them, the owner took his time — a yellow bulb shed light on his doubts, on his brow, furrowing at the rhythm of soft coos. The nights in the office grew less and less silent.

Cogs became machinery, the wooden boards a table, as fast as the keeper could allow himself to work. And the walls hosted a marvel, a sequence created by the most ironic of destinies — until even there, in the end, a glimpse of shine showed through.

Pretty figures, gilded stars, came to live in the cold air of the room. It was a setting too dark for them — a mere recreation, with little of the old model’s soul. Nonetheless, the keeper always returned to his basement.

Through the years, with his solitary light, he climbed the same stairs.   
  
And he wished, every single time, he would put it all to good use someday.


	5. (KMR)–2675 - Uniformed Men’s Office

When the phone rings, in the first steps of the evening, it meets other words and times than those of any other day. 

The air of the office is nervous and vibrant against its sound. It has to cut its way through the tension of this night; for this is the end of a story, too terrible to tell, eventually left without a resolution.

And yet, up to now, this place only knew patience and resignation. Its rhythm was split between work and long waits; a heavy routine cycled through the days, accompanied by the voice of the buzzing monitors.

Within the screens, always, the prisoners were silent. They walked in circles, measuring their days in square feet; they thought of the future on their own, even with nothing left to plan out.

Then, among the quieter ones, his story went on. The monitors showed each of its passages, unfolding within the walk of the years — the office was constantly lit by its images, in between new habits and old, decaying hope.

Even today, against the wall, the ticking clock was the only sound. But an officer dances and writes down his doubts, faster than usual, caught in his quick heartbeat; and a house of cards stands, fragile, in the middle of the coming storm.

It takes a simple phone call to destroy it, breaking the usual balance of the whole room. They talk, move and listen, according to what their duty requires — but their sheets and cards, along with their certainties, lie scattered on the floor.

There is no time to clean, to think or wonder, in the way they are used to. Not tonight — not until it ends, not while the phone keeps ringing.


	6. (KMR)–3243 - Moonlit Courtyard

The courtyard is bare in this lonely night. The phone booth stands out, bright yellow against bloodless concrete.

It is a place made for secrets, for bitter memories hidden in the winter; the floor has cracks and holes and crumbled tears, mirror to those stories of broken love that can nothing but go completely wrong.

It is a place of greyish darkness, a sinkhole to drain hope away — and Sissel can only watch, trapped in the same silence. He lets their words echo against the walls; he lets them reveal, with such a simple trick of nature, the many layers of their meaning.

The one certainty he has, in this lost night, is that nothing actually is what it seems to be — and just like time isn’t one only, he knows they are telling each other many and many more stories under the thin outline of just one sentence.

They speak of what could be, of what never was, and maybe wasn’t. The floor tinges itself with their shadows; theirs are broken dreams and storylines, written in the lost pages of their mistakes.

But there is more this place is bound to hide, more threads of destiny, that are not torn yet — and one simple gesture ties them all together, in the slender chain of a pocket watch.


	7. (MKG)–6799 - The Chicken Kitchen

In the whole town, there is no place like this tonight. The concert of the sounds has perfect timing — nowhere else could the voice of the phone be in better company.

There is a cheerful ring to it, and it echoes the bell; every time a new order gets through, it is silvery laughter. It accompanies most of the evening, with the swift clicking of the rollerblades.

It gets acute, spiky, later on in the evening. Nobody notices, in the merry chatter from the tables; it echoes what none of them will see, repeating clinking of wheels, of shattered glass. 

It gets heavier when they are tired, when they feel the desire to be lonely. Their full bellies make their hearing numb; but it is clear, in the tone, the booming thud of a huge sign that falls.

It rings in different ways, one for each of them. It has the soft sound of drinks poured in the glass, of good smell and loud singing; it speaks, with the calculated rhythm of clicking heels, in a place where many knots have to be loosened and formed.   
  
Whatever tune may come, the phone doesn’t stop ringing. It is a busy night, full of layers and empty plates.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, Ghost Trick fans! Now that Sounds of Shibuya, my TWEWY fanwriting challenge, is finally done, I’m glad to introduce you all a new drabble project.  
> Descriptive stories about places have always been one of my favourite genres. Thus, of course, I could ask for nothing better when I experienced this game’s colourful, varied and fascinating setting. Ghost Trick offers many different sights; I added to the mix my favourite travelling feature ever, the phone line, and here we are!
> 
> Spider’s Web is going to be a collection of drabbles about the Ghost Trick locations, or, to be more precise, each known location with a phone number. The following list of phone numbers is updated to Chapter 17, and taken from there without any changes.  
> Spider’s Web is the original title of this old drabble of mine. For the occasion, I translated it from Italian and posted it in English as a prologue.
> 
> Since I want to keep the original disposition found in the Phone Book, the drabbles will not be written in chronological order, but according to the list. Of course, beware of spoilers: there will be plenty— and tagged — throughout the whole collection.


End file.
